


Covert Operations

by colonel_bastard



Category: Barry (TV 2018)
Genre: Aggression, Alcohol, Bad Decisions, Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, Codependency, Confrontations, Deepthroating, Dominance, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Homophobic Language, Horniness, M/M, Masturbation, Neediness, Power Imbalance, Praise Kink, Protectiveness, Public Sex, Quiet Sex, Self-Esteem Issues, Semi-Public Sex, Service Submission, Teasing, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:28:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23122510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colonel_bastard/pseuds/colonel_bastard
Summary: Fuches was the one to suggest they meet up at a bar to celebrate the reunion. Barry will wonder, later, if he already suspected what might happen next, and perhaps hoped that being out in public would be enough to enforce restraint.Well, he was right about the first part.Pre-series. Everyone knows that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but no one ever talks about the side effects.
Relationships: Barry Berkman/Monroe Fuches
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	Covert Operations

**Author's Note:**

> challenged myself to write something for these two where they actually get to have a good time!!! i was gonna say they deserve it but uhhhhhh let's face it they're both terrible lmao so this was just for fun
> 
> i do want to make a **special note** here regarding frequent use of the word "crazy" in a negative context— it's in-character for these two assholes but i just want everyone to be prepared in case that's something that really bothers you!
> 
> meanwhile it's the perfect fic to share the perfect song: [fire meet gasoline](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rvzg-w4zz3M)

-

-

-

It’s been too long and they both know it. What they didn’t know, until this exact moment, was that this would ever be a problem.

So they haven’t seen each other in a few weeks. They’ve both been traveling for work— Fuches to make connections, Barry to make his quota— it was just a weird stretch of time where their schedules ended up with them on alternating weekends in Cleveland and they kept passing each other in mid-air. No big deal. It wasn’t even a whole month. Besides, there was plenty of time spent on the phone, plenty of texts exchanged, so it’s not like they even had any real reason to miss each other. If prompted, Barry would have said that he hardly minded the separation at all, and the really crazy thing is, he would have _believed_ it. Sometimes he must be better at lying than he thought.

Fuches was the one to suggest they meet up at a bar to celebrate the reunion. Barry will wonder, later, if he already suspected what might happen next, and perhaps hoped that being out in public would be enough to enforce restraint. 

Well, he was right about the first part. 

Barry knows he’s in trouble from the moment Fuches greets him with a bear hug. Sometimes Fuches will loop one arm up over Barry’s shoulder for a diagonal embrace, but tonight he charges in and throws both arms around Barry’s middle, squeezing them together and burying his face in Barry’s chest. In the next instant Barry’s arms snap shut around him like the jaws of a foothold trap, crushing Fuches against his body with all of his strength.

“Jesus, _fuck_ ,” Fuches laughs, the words muffled in the front of Barry’s shirt. “I fucking missed you, man!”

“Yeah,” Barry says, dazed, blindsided by the smell of his cologne. “Me too.”

It doesn’t get any easier once they’re inside. The bar is crowded enough to force them into close proximity, loud enough that they have to lean their mouths towards each other’s tilted ears to be heard over the din. Barry can’t believe how good Fuches smells— it washes over his senses like the smell of a beloved comfort food, filling him with the memory of satisfaction while simultaneously triggering a deep, profound craving to be satisfied again, preferably as soon as possible. It certainly doesn’t help that Fuches can’t seem to keep his hands off of him, slapping Barry’s back and tousling his hair at every opportunity, even occasionally grabbing the back of his _neck_ , god, it’s like he’s _trying_ to drive Barry completely crazy. 

Barry keeps his shit together for the first few drinks, but by the third or fourth round he’s crumbling fast. Then they’re pressed side by side at the bar, practically hip to hip as they wait for service, Fuches keeping up a nonstop stream of chatter while Barry nods and risks the occasional quick glance of eye contact. As the bartender finally starts to approach, Fuches says to Barry, “I think we need some shots. You want a shot?” 

It’s a terrible idea. Barry says, “Sure, okay.” 

And just before the bartender reaches them, Fuches reaches up to hook his arm around Barry’s shoulders, tugging him down just enough so that only Barry hears him ask in a sly, knowing tone:

“Should I tell him to make it a Blow Job?”

Barry jerks his ear away from the words, his head twisted to stare at Fuches in wide-eyed shock. Fuches grins, his arm trailing down Barry’s back as he turns to the bartender and says, “Can we get two shots of tequila over here?”

When the drinks are placed before them, they pick up their respective glasses and turn towards each other to hold them aloft in a mutual toast. Fuches gives the signal with a wink, then knocks his shot back like a pro. Barry does not follow suit. He waits for Fuches to lower his head and see him still waiting. Then, once he’s sure that Fuches is watching, he holds the glass out before him and bobs down to fit his mouth over the whole thing, his cheeks hollowing as he throws back his head and takes the tequila straight down his throat. He lets the empty shot glass fall into his hand and then slams it back down onto the bar with a bang. Fuches makes a show of setting his own down with careful, deliberate precision. Barry can’t take it anymore.

“I gotta piss,” he says, then turns and lurches stiff-legged towards the back of the bar. 

He nearly crashes into someone on their way out of the men’s room, the two of them engaging in a brief do-si-do before they manage to get around each other and go their separate ways. After that, Barry is blessedly, momentarily alone. 

Breathing hard, he staggers to the nearest sink and switches on the tap as cold as it will go. A furtive glance at his reflection shows him a ticking timebomb, his cheeks flushed and his pupils blown out like an addict’s. He also sees that his hard-on is even more visible than he thought, and with a mortified groan he reaches down the front of his jeans to tuck his cock up under the waistband of his boxer briefs, stifling a hiss of frustrated need as he’s forced to leave it at that. By way of distraction he stoops to cup his hands under the running faucet, splashing his face and fighting to take slow, deep breaths. 

He’s switched off the tap but he’s still bent over with his face dripping into the sink when Fuches says beside him, “Hey, buddy.”

Barry whirls around so fast that it’s a miracle he doesn’t accidentally tear the sink off the wall. Fuches immediately holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender, then drops them again with a chuckle while Barry huffs in a combination of annoyance and embarrassment.

“ _Jesus_ , Fuches.”

“Hey, my bad,” Fuches says with a shrug. “I didn’t realize you were so, uh... distracted.” 

He says the last word with such a pointed look that Barry has to avert his gaze, which ricochets off his reflection in the mirror and ends up right back on Fuches’s face again. Barry narrows his eyes, his tone low and defensive. 

“Did you fucking follow me in here?”

Fuches takes a step towards him and Barry almost recoils, his instincts urging him to retreat like a repelled magnet. It’s a safety mechanism— he knows if Fuches gets much closer, the poles will reverse and then nothing will be able to keep them apart. Fuches takes another step. He knows, too. 

“Like hell you had to piss this early,” he smirks. “You’re a goddamn camel, Barry.”

Barry makes a vague, dismissive sound, a stalling tactic that buys him enough time to think of exactly nothing to say in response. Fuches takes another step and Barry has to grab on to the edge of the sink to hold his ground. 

“You okay, bud?” Fuches asks, his eyes flicking down to the white-knuckled grip and back up to Barry’s flushed, wet face. “You seem a little… I don’t know… flustered?”

“I’m fine,” Barry mumbles. “It’s just… you know, I haven’t been drinking as much lately. I’m not used to it.” 

“Uh huh,” Fuches nods. “And here I thought you were just happy to see me.” 

Barry scrubs his free hand over his face, trying to hide whatever stupid giveaway expression he knows he won’t be able to stop himself from making. 

“C’mon, man, you know I’m happy to see you.” 

“Did you miss me, Barry?”

When Barry hesitates, Fuches takes the last three steps in rapid succession, bulldozing into Barry’s personal space until there’s only a matter of inches left between them. This time Barry’s grip on the sink isn’t to keep him from retreating— it’s to keep him from lunging forward, as he grits his teeth and rolls his eyes up towards the ceiling, his voice tight with restraint. 

“Fuches—”

“I said,” Fuches presses. “Did you _miss_ me, Barry?” He makes a low, harsh sound in the back of his throat. “Fuck, man, I know I missed you.” 

Barry looks back at him in amazement, braced for the punchline and finding only intense, laser focus, Fuches staring up at him like he can see right through Barry’s eyes and all the way into his skull. 

“Really?” Barry wonders, his voice small and hopeful. 

“Are you kidding me?” Fuches almost laughs. “Buddy, I missed you like _crazy_.”

Barry panics and screws his eyes shut, but it’s like running to find a hiding spot after the count has already run out. It’s too late— he’s been seen. The knowledge pierces him like a spear and bleeds the willpower out of him, his weight shifting inevitably into Fuches’s personal space, his head dipped towards Fuches’s shoulder to take a long, heady draw of his cologne. Even as he’s leaning down Fuches is already reaching up, his hand curling possessively around the back of Barry’s neck to pull him closer.

“I know, I know,” he huffs, almost like he can’t believe it himself. “It’s fucking crazy.” 

“Fuches,” Barry breathes, fighting to keep his hands at his sides. “Fuches, don’t— I _can’t_ —”

“Me neither,” Fuches rasps. “Shit, I’m not gonna make it, man. You gotta help me out here.” 

Barry bites his lip and shakes his head, his eyes still shut tight— but when Fuches takes another step forward, Barry obediently takes a matching step backwards, offering no resistance as Fuches drives him along by the force of his presence alone. 

“No, no way,” Barry mumbles, arching his neck into Fuches’s touch and allowing himself to be driven. “C’mon, man, we can’t, we _can’t_ —”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Fuches nods, already steering Barry towards the handicapped stall. “Guess we better make it quick, huh?” 

Barry stumbles in reverse until he hits the stall door, pushing it open with his back as Fuches keeps coming in after him. It closes again with a bang that makes Barry’s eyes spring wide just in time to see Fuches sliding the bolt of the latch, locking them in the stall together. The sudden, intense proximity is enough to make Barry’s dick throb unbearably against his belly, his breath hitching, one hand thrown out to brace himself against the wall. 

“This is crazy,” he hisses, his other hand compulsively clamped over his unruly cock through the front of his jeans. “Man, this is _crazy_ —”

“ _You’re_ crazy,” Fuches grins, already working on his belt buckle. “Now are you gonna help me out with this or what?”

Barry holds out for a few more precious seconds, but as soon as he hears the jingle of the buckle peeling apart he’s a goner. Next thing he knows he’s smacking Fuches’s hands out of the way so he can do the rest himself, popping the button and fly with expert fingers while Fuches grabs on to his shoulders, his hips jutted eagerly towards Barry’s touch. 

“Yeah, there we go—”

“Man, shut up,” Barry sucks in a laugh under his breath. “You’re fucking _crazy_ —”

They duck their heads together to watch as Barry tugs Fuches’s pants open in the front, giving him just enough room to fumble one hand down inside Fuches’s underwear to take hold of his cock, eliciting a sharp, clipped sound from them both. 

“Fuck,” Fuches inhales. 

“Yeah,” Barry exhales. 

He tightens his grip in a purposeful tug that makes Fuches rock up onto his toes to follow it, his fists clutched at Barry’s shirt for balance. Barry still has one hand free, and without thinking he braces it against Fuches’s chest, an unconscious safeguard to keep them from getting too close. By some unspoken cue they look at each other in the same breathless instant, their eyes wide in mutual disbelief. It would be hard to say which of them looks more surprised that this is actually happening. Barry is so discombobulated that he almost straight-up blurts out how good it feels to have Fuches’s cock in his hand again. 

“ _Shhh_ ,” he hisses instead, the order meant for both of them.

“You _shhh_ ,” Fuches hisses back, the order meant for Barry alone. 

Barry gives his cock another rough jerk in answer, forcing Fuches to clench his teeth against the subsequent moan, his chin tucked down to his chest to stare at Barry’s fingers splayed over the region of his heart. His pulse is running like a jackhammer under Barry’s palm, beating a thundering counterpoint to the rapid rise and fall of his breathing. Barry’s other palm is cocooned around as much of Fuches’s length as he can cover, the pad of his thumb rubbing skillfully at the head of Fuches’s dick as he pumps him again, then again, savoring the familiar heat in his grip. 

“Oh, fuck,” Fuches grits out. “ _Fuuuck_ —”

“Fuches, I’m serious,” Barry pants, his guts _aching_ at the raw pleasure in Fuches’s voice. “You gotta shut _up_ —”

Fuches stifles himself with a grunt of acknowledgment, communicating instead by yanking emphatically on Barry’s shirt, snapping the reins to urge him on. Barry bucks forward at the command, his hand working harder and faster inside Fuches’s underwear, his other hand curling into a fist in the front of Fuches’s shirt to mirror the way that Fuches is holding on to his. He wants to get closer, _closer_ — but Fuches has absolutely no chance of standing his ground once Barry starts pressing in, and he ends up staggering backwards until he hits the stall door with enough force to rattle the whole frame. Barry barely notices the sound, too busy using the collision as an opportunity to crowd into Fuches’s space until their foreheads almost bump together, their combined weight thrown perilously against the slide latch. 

“Easy,” Fuches wheezes. “Easy, easy—”

He breaks off into a muffled groan as Barry hits him with another strong, insistent tug that makes him tilt his head back into the hollow metal paneling with a dull thud, his jaw clenched and his teeth bared. It’s a good thing that Barry had the foresight to brace that hand on Fuches’s chest, because right now all he wants to do is plaster himself over Fuches like a wetsuit, clinging to every inch of his body with every inch of own. God, he missed him so _much_ — missed his smell, missed his laugh, missed the sound of his breathing when he’s breathing like _this_ — he has the fleeting, foolish urge to ask what Fuches might have missed about him in return, but the question never even makes it to the tip of his tongue. He knows that’s something he’ll have to figure out for himself, though judging by the condition that Fuches is in right now, Barry has a pretty good guess for at least part of the answer. 

“Uh huh,” Fuches confirms in a low rasp, his hands loosening from Barry’s shirt so he can hold on to Barry’s shoulders instead. “Yeah, that’s it—” 

“Yeah?” Barry mirrors the gesture, flattening his palm over Fuches’s chest, his other hand still working forcefully in Fuches’s pants. “Okay, just— _shhh_ — _shhh_ —”

There are two wolves inside of him right now— one of them knows it’s a goddamn _miracle_ that no one else has walked in yet, all of his survival instincts screaming at him to zip up and get the hell out of there before their luck runs out. The other one just wants to get his mouth on Fuches’s cock as soon as he possibly can. Unfortunately, and with all due respect to Mr. Darwin, it doesn’t look like the survival instincts are going to win out this time.

“Shit,” Fuches gasps, one hand braced on Barry’s shoulder.

The other hand slips over to cradle the back of Barry’s neck, and just like that Barry’s mouth is filled with a Pavlovian flood of drool that sweeps the first wolf away in a tidal wave. He gulps it back in a thick swallow that rolls down the length of his empty, aching throat and hits his stomach like a shot of cheap whiskey, a surge of heat rushing through his limbs and pooling heavy in his groin. God, maybe he really is going crazy. 

First things first— they need to get away from the door. Fuches keeps bumping into it, rattling the frame and the neighboring stall with the clamor of someone rummaging through a mountain of pots and pans. Between the conspicuous racket and the very real possibility of the latch giving way and dumping them right out into the open, it’s time to make a tactical retreat and fall back to a new position. 

“Okay,” Barry mumbles, his mind made up. “Okay, c’mere.” 

He tightens his grip on Fuches at both points of contact, steering him predominantly by the shirt as he turns them together in a one-eighty that switches their positions in the stall. As he’d predicted, Fuches starts to wobble without anything to lean against, his hold on Barry’s neck going from a luxury to a necessity as he clings to him for balance. Careful not to let him fall, Barry encourages Fuches to follow the momentum backwards, coaxing him in reverse until Fuches hits the toilet with the back of his knees. They sway together for a few unsteady seconds as Barry quickly tugs Fuches’s pants and underwear down just enough to expose his cock before Fuches’s legs give out and he crashes down to the seat with a heavy grunt. 

“Ugh, Jesus,” he pants. “What the fuck are you—?”

“ _Shhh_ ,” Barry darts a glance over his shoulder, giddy and wild. “You _really_ need to shut up, man.”

In the next instant he drops to his knees on the dirty bathroom floor. Fuches groans in disbelief, shaking his dumbstruck head as Barry crawls hungrily into his lap, his mouth already open and wet with anticipation. 

“C’mon, you don’t— you don’t have to—” Fuches wheezes. “It’s fine, buddy, you can just use your hand—”

Barry raises his head to show Fuches the ravenous intent in his eyes. 

“I don’t _want_ to use my hand.” 

Fuches sucks in a sharp breath. Then his cock visibly twitches with the same stupid neediness that got them into this mess in the first place, and just like that, his cover is irrevocably blown. Their gazes stay locked and loaded as he reaches to grab a rough fistful of Barry’s hair, his voice reduced to a low, urgent rasp.

“ _Make it quick_.”

With an idiotic grin, Barry charges forward like a racehorse exploding out of the gate, lunging in so fast that he barely manages to get a grip on the base of Fuches’s cock to hold him steady before he’s stuffing his greedy mouth and throat with as much as he can take. _God_ , it’s good, it’s so good, filling all the empty places inside of him and pushing every other thought from his anxious, overcrowded mind until he doesn’t have space left for anything else. Even in this borderline frenzy he does everything he can to stay quiet, his lips carefully sealed around their prize to limit the sounds of suction as he bobs his head at a pace that could be politely described as _vigorous_ and impolitely as _fucking desperate_. He can’t really do anything about the thick, messy noise of his swallowing, nor about the groan that Fuches just barely manages to catch in his palm as he claps a hand over his mouth with an audible smack. His other hand ends up shoved into Barry’s hair, too addled to control the tempo so he just yanks and twists without any kind of tempo at all. Fuck, Barry hadn’t even realized how much he missed that, too. 

They can’t be more than ten seconds into it when the door to the men’s room swings wide open. 

All at once there’s a wall of sound from the bar outside, along with at least two distinct voices engaged in an indistinct murmuring that clarifies into an overheard conversation as the door closes again and cuts off the clamor behind them. 

_“Wait, wait— so you’re saying that Skyler is the bad guy here? C’mon, man, don’t be one of those people.”_

_“Are you serious? She’s a bitch! She’s a total bitch.”_

Barry’s already scrambling up to his feet before he knows what he’s doing, his survival instincts going from a scream to an unbearable clanging as his eyes run laps around the stall, urgently assessing his level of cover. The gaps on either side of the stall door are fortuitously negligible, while there’s approximately four inches of clearance between the floor and the cubicle walls. _If he could just hide the fact that there are two of them in here_ — 

On a frantic impulse, Barry stoops to hook his hands under Fuches’s knees, then yanks his feet approximately five inches up from the floor. 

Fuches very nearly doesn’t catch up to him in time. The unexpected maneuver almost flips him right back into the tank of the toilet, and he barely manages to throw his arms around Barry’s neck to hold on, his eyes bulging wide in alarm and his breath caught in a stifled grunt at the close call. 

“Shit,” he hisses reflexively. 

Barry doesn’t dare make a sound in response, cutting him off with a vehement shake of his head, his own eyes equally wide and equally alarmed. He bottles the breath inside of him until he’s certain that the chatter on the other side of the stall door has continued unabated, at which point he lets the air out in a slow, careful exhale. 

_“—I’m just asking you to name one thing, one thing she’s done that makes her a bitch.”_

_“You know, she just— she’s such a nag! She’s always nagging him, always messing up his business—”_

_“Bro, he’s a fucking drug dealer! You’re not supposed to be rooting for his business!”_

If anyone were to glance under the stall partitions, they would hopefully assume that the single occupant of the handicapped stall was just a shy pisser, holding his stance before the bowl and waiting for his privacy. From the knees down Barry plays the part perfectly. The rest of him is bent into an awkward hunch as he holds Fuches’s legs up like the handles of a wheelbarrow— _heavier_ , since Fuches is actively leaning forward instead of back onto the seat, sitting most of his weight on Barry’s hands. That’s because he wants to stay close, his arms hugged around Barry’s neck and his face tucked in the hollow of Barry’s throat, Barry’s nose practically nuzzled into his hair. They huddle together like two kids breaking curfew, crouched in the dark and trying not to give themselves away with their breathing. 

_“What do you mean I’m not supposed to be rooting for him? He’s the hero of the whole fucking show!”_

_“Listen, man, Walt may be the protagonist of the series, but that does **not** make him the hero—”_

_“He is the **main dude** , dude—”_

“So,” Fuches whispers up towards Barry’s ear. “Do you think they’ll wash their hands?”

Barry shakes his head again, quick and forceful, his gaze fixed resolutely over Fuches’s shoulder. Undeterred, Fuches just changes tactics, loosening his arms so he can lean back and look up at Barry’s tense, anxious face and averted eyes. He doesn’t have to wait long for Barry to relent and make eye contact, his gaze drawn towards Fuches as inevitably as water running downhill. Once he’s satisfied that he has Barry’s attention, Fuches grins and draws in a big theatrical breath, making a show of opening his mouth as if to speak. 

“ _Don’t_ ,” Barry mouths, soundless, his eyes imploring. “ _Please_.”

Fuches raises his eyebrows, then releases the breath with a silent smile and a wink. Barry’s own expression turns into one of flustered amusement, equal parts thrilled and furious that Fuches could be so reckless, that they could have even let themselves get backed into this corner in the first place. He can hear at least one sink start running, followed by the high-pitched mechanical whir of the automatic soap dispenser serving up a dollop. 

“ _Good for him_ ,” Fuches mouths. 

“ _Shhh_ ,” Barry forms the sound with his lips without putting his breath behind it.

There’s a brief burst of sound as the bathroom door opens and closes again. _Was that someone leaving, or someone coming in?_ Shit, it happens again almost immediately— someone else has definitely just come inside— _shit shit shit_ —

Barry shifts his feet, trying to take some of the pressure off his trapped cock and throbbing balls, his jeans by now feeling about three sizes too small in the zipper area. Fuches’s eyes are immediately drawn to the movement of Barry’s hips, his gaze lifted a moment later with a sly, knowing smirk. Barry’s own eyes go huge with dawning comprehension as Fuches slips one hand to the back of Barry’s neck for balance, leaving his other hand free to slither down between them and find Barry’s belt buckle. 

“ _Hnh_ —” Barry clenches his teeth against a whine, his legs giving a traitorous shake while his feet stay planted, steadfastly holding his ground. 

The sink is running again. The roar of a hand dryer. Fuches picks apart buckle, button, and fly at an agonizing one-handed pace, pausing frequently to glance up at Barry’s flushed face and goggled eyes, his own eyes bright and shameless with intent. Barry’s cock is strangling itself in the waistband of his boxer briefs like a dog choking itself on the end of a chain, claws raking brutal furrows in the earth as he strains to reach the object of his hunger. When Fuches peels his jeans open and sees it for himself, he sucks in a hushed gasp of approval that only adds another shot of precome to the wet smear growing on Barry’s shuddering belly. Every nerve ending is alight with the feverish urge to drop everything and grab his dick to put the dog out of its misery. It’s taking almost every ounce of his willpower to keep from slamming Fuches’s feet to the floor with a conspicuous thud— the remaining ounces go towards restraining his clawed fingers from digging bruises into the back of Fuches’s knees. 

“ _Shhh_ ,” Fuches forms the sound with his lips without putting his breath behind it. “ _Shhh_.”

Barry can’t bear to watch the action below so he keeps his eyes trained on Fuches’s face, fighting to keep his knees from buckling as Fuches slides the elastic waistband down in the front until his cock falls out like a Murphy bed, all made up and ready to go. Instantly Barry’s body is aware of the fact that they’ve never quite been in this position before— Barry standing like _that_ with his cock right _there_ and Fuches seated like _that_ with his mouth right _there_ — he watches in amazement as Fuches’s eyes trail down and linger, the hesitation palpable, the proximity nearly unbearable. 

_Hell, it wouldn’t even be the craziest thing that’s happened tonight._

Once again Barry has two wolves inside of him. One wolf wants it more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life. The other one knows that he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from keening like a goddamn wounded animal and then they’d both be _fucked_. As it is, he’s equal parts disappointed and relieved when Fuches finally settles on using his hand. 

“ _Mmm_ —!” 

Barry still has to bite his lip so hard that he’s sure he must draw blood, wracked with a full-body shudder that tests his resolve to maintain their cover, his arms shaking from the strain of holding Fuches’s feet up out of sight. Fuches isn't even jerking him off, he’s just holding him— but oh, to be _held_. It’s like everything inside of Barry was poured into a glass and left wobbling right at the edge of the table and Fuches just reached out to catch him and set him upright again, soothing and steadying him in ways and places that Barry didn’t think anything could reach anymore. Overwhelmed with gratitude, he slumps forward until their foreheads knock together, his breathing thin and ragged, his lower lip still caught desperately between his teeth. When their eyes meet, they’re only inches apart. 

Foreheads still touching, Fuches grins and shakes his head in a silent warning to keep quiet. Barry nods back, determined to hold up his end in every way. He won’t make a sound and he won’t let go, not even when Fuches sinks his weight even more insistently onto Barry’s hands, _Jesus_ , he might as well be standing up in the stirrups. Any bruises at this point are his own damn fault. Barry has to put all his effort now just into retaining his grip, his back bowed and his legs threatening to give way at any second.

There goes the sink again. Barry can’t wait anymore. Needy and impatient, he digs his forehead against Fuches’s, nodding, _nodding_ until Fuches relents and gives his cock a slow, tight squeeze that Barry feels all the way up in the empty pit of his throat. Another shudder bolts through him like a whip crack, this one knocking their skulls against each other with enough force that it almost jars them both into exclamations of pain before Fuches pushes their heads back together to make them both shut up. They lean against each other to soothe the sting of impact, so close that their breath could almost combine to form a tiny humid atmosphere between their mouths. Outside the stall, the hand dryer reaches the end of an automatic cycle and clicks off.

Silence. 

They’re so wrapped up in each other that it actually takes them a second to notice. Then Barry abruptly cocks his head, his gaze directed sharply off to the side as he telescopes all of his senses towards his ears, straining to detect any signs of enemy activity beyond the confines of the stall. No sink, no dryer, no voices or footsteps or even the splatter of piss hitting porcelain— when Barry looks back at Fuches’s expression of dawning awareness, he can feel that his own face has gone slack with realization, his pupils blown wide like a cat spotting prey. Then—

“Quick, quick—” Fuches pants, scrambling to sit forward.

Without hesitation Barry drops both sets of knees, his own slamming to the floor at the same time as Fuches’s feet. In a flash Fuches has both hands burrowed into Barry’s sweaty hair, his fingers locked around two greedy fistfuls to yank him closer. Barry is already way ahead of him, so primed and eager that he takes Fuches all the way to the hilt with hardly any effort at all, the top of his head butting up against Fuches’s slouched belly while his chest produces a subsonic rumble of satisfaction that turns his whole goddamn throat into a vibrator. 

“Oh, Jesus, _god_ —” Fuches moans, his voice high and quavering before he has the sense to slap a hand over his mouth, the other still clenched at the crown of Barry’s head.

Barry knows he has to make every second count. He goes at it like he’s shotgunning a beer, bobbing his head and gulping Fuches down again and again, his left hand wrapped around the base of Fuches’s cock to keep it aimed right down the channel of his pulsing throat. His right hand gets busy beating his dick like it killed his cat, the act as brutal as it is cathartic, his grip rough and his tempo merciless. 

“Yeah, buddy,” Fuches mumbles from under his hand. “There we go—” 

His thighs are starting to tremble; he’s almost there. Barry works him faster, faster, driving him at a breakneck pace towards the edge. He matches the tempo with his fist, but at this point the jerking off is almost an afterthought. The only thing that really matters is making sure that Fuches gets to come, because Fuches actually missed him when Barry didn’t even know how badly he wanted to be missed. _Buddy, I missed you like **crazy.**_ Barry can’t think of any other way to prove how much that means to him. The best part is, he knows that Fuches really means it— otherwise they wouldn’t be in this mess right now. 

“ _Fgk_ —” Fuches curses into his palm. “Hrnh— _mmm_ —”

Unlike Barry, stealth is not exactly his forte. He’s a natural talker who talks even more when he’s drunk and even _more_ when he’s getting his dick sucked. Now the words are piling up behind his hand like a river pounding against the audacity of a human dam, the strain reaching critical levels. All he can do is channel that energy into the one palm and out through the other, sending all that pent-up pressure directly into his grip in Barry’s hair, jerking and tearing with enough force to make Barry’s eyes water. Barry leans into the pain and lets it goad him like the flog of a riding crop, hollowing his cheeks and dipping his head until it feels like Fuches is about to rip the scalp right off the top of his skull.

Then Fuches goes suddenly, sublimely quiet, and Barry knows with a surge of triumph that _we made it_.

“ _Frrhk!_ ” Fuches barks into his hand.

The other hand shoves Barry down on his cock to take it all, his hips jerking up from the toilet seat as he comes deep in the sheath of Barry’s eager, gulping throat. It sets Barry off like a hand grenade, his composure absolutely destroyed by his proximity to the blast— then his guts are filling up with Fuches’s load while he shoots his own in messy splatters all over the base of the toilet, his eyes rolling in his skull and his hand and mouth beating at a furious, syncopated double-time to ruin them both. He holds on to Fuches like a breath held underwater, like he’ll fucking _die_ if he ever lets him go. God, now that he knows how bad it can get, he wonders if he’ll ever be tolerate such a separation again. 

By the time they’re done he’s drained just about every last drop from Fuches’s balls and pummeled his own cock until it’s raw and throbbing. He doesn’t even remember when he finally gives up— he just comes to his senses with his forehead resting on Fuches’s thigh and his chest heaving for air, his limp right hand draped over Fuches’s lap like a hunting trophy. He can hear Fuches laboring to catch his breath, one hand still tangled in Barry’s hair while the other wipes the sweat from his flushed face, his gaze directed up towards the overhead fluorescents in reeling disbelief. 

They don’t even linger that long— a few hasty lungfuls of oxygen, a few dozen racing heartbeats— all of it caught and held when there’s a sudden, violent pounding on the stall door. 

“ _Are you fucking kidding me right now?_ ”

Fuches bolts backwards like a startled rabbit, bumping into the toilet tank with a teeth-jangling clatter that makes his face screw up in dismay. Barry instantly braces both hands on Fuches’s thighs to keep him still and quiet, his gaze thrown back over his shoulder to make sure that the slide latch is still shut tight. _Perimeter secure._ He can see a set of unfamiliar shoes outside, standing so close that the toes almost intrude into the space under the door. 

“You think this is a fucking gay bar? Get off your fucking knees, faggot!”

Barry gives Fuches a sharp, silencing glance punctuated with a curt shake of his head. It turns out to be completely unnecessary— Fuches is way too spooked to talk, his pulse hammering visibly in his neck, his eyes flared wide like a horse smelling smoke. Quick and careful Barry gets to his feet, his back still turned towards the locked door, his tone and posture as non-confrontational as possible. 

“All right, man,” he says. “Take it easy. Let’s not do anything stupid.” 

“You wanna talk about doing something stupid? How about blowing your boyfriend in a goddamn public bathroom!” Another volley of pounding on the door. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you fucking sick?”

As Barry quietly tucks his dick his away and gets his jeans zipped up, he hears a second voice appealing in a low murmur: “C’mon, man, let’s just get the fuck out of here.” 

_Great, so there’s at least two of them._ Finished with his belt buckle, Barry takes a forceful step to plant himself sideways, his stance now unmistakably braced in warning, ready to kick anything that comes under the partition. If they stooped to see that he was kneeling, he doesn’t want them to think they can get their faces close enough to try and see anything else. Meanwhile he shoots Fuches a quick nod, urging him to get up and get his shit together ASAP. Fuches hurries to grab the handicap support rail on the wall and haul himself to his feet, where he fumbles to get his pants back in order with nervous, jittery hands. Barry, combat veteran and contract killer, is as calm as any creature in their natural habitat.

“I think you should listen to your friend,” he calls, his voice low and steady. “I think we should all just walk away before this gets ugly.” 

“Oh, you fucking wish!” A set of fingertips appears over the stall door to rattle it. “Come on out, faggot, I’ll show you how fucking ugly this gets.” 

“Christ,” Fuches mutters under his breath.

When Barry looks over at him, he sees Fuches wiping his sweaty palms against his thighs, his expression a thin veneer of annoyance over a deafening undercurrent of fear. It cuts like a knife to see him look so shaken— Barry looks away again just as quickly, half to spare Fuches’s dignity and half to spare himself the discomfort of witnessing it. He now turns entirely to face the door instead, his focus directed out towards the intruders who have dared to inflict this violation, his disciplined calm evaporating in a blaze of savage, protective anger. 

“You better back the fuck off, asshole,” he snarls, his voice abruptly plunging down into the bass register. “I’m a fucking Marine.” 

A nasty bray of laughter. “Yeah, right! Are you kidding me? Do you think I’m stupid?” The loud slam of an aggressive foot connecting with a hollow metal panel. “I said get the fuck out here! Two against two, faggots, it’s a fair fight, let’s go!”

There’s a harsh desert wind blowing in the back of Barry’s mind as he snaps back the latch and throws the stall door open with a bang. He can see the shock on the faces of his would-be combatants as he reveals all six feet and two inches of his broad, intimidating frame, which he proceeds to charge directly into their personal space, his eyes flashing like the muzzle of a double-barreled shotgun. 

“Oh yeah, dipshit?” he roars. “You think I’m fucking kidding?” 

On pure reflex they stumble back from his advance, blindsided not just by his size but by the sheer confidence behind it, hurtling at them with such force that their only choice is to retreat or be run over. They’re a complementary pair of characters— one of them is close to Barry’s height but only a fraction of his weight, while the stockier one can’t be more than five foot eight. Barry could have them both on the ground in ten seconds flat if he put his mind to it, and he makes sure to flex the full scope of his physical presence as he claps his left hand to his right bicep, shoving up the sleeve of his t-shirt to expose the initials **USMC** tattooed on his skin. 

“You see that, motherfucker? You think that’s just for shits and giggles? Huh?” He sweeps his burning gaze back and forth between them, his teeth bared in challenge. “You think this is a fucking joke?”

Tall Guy already has his hands up and his eyes downcast in submission; _ah, Mr. “C’mon, Man, Let’s Just Get The Fuck Out Of Here,” I presume._ Stocky Guy is the one that still looks pissed, his jaw and fists clenched in a simmering combination of human outrage and animal distress, all of his survival instincts no doubt screaming at him to tuck his tail between his legs and acknowledge the apex predator in the room. Maybe two hyenas do stand a chance at taking down a lion— but that’s only if the hyenas work together, and right now that doesn’t look too promising. It certainly doesn’t help that the lion is currently exhaling blood-stained breath directly into their faces, daring them to make a move. 

“Now,” Barry growls, his sleeve shoved back down and his glare fixed solely on the ringleader. “Let’s try this again. I’m gonna say, _I think we should all just walk away before this gets ugly._ And you’re gonna say…?”

The hyenas trade glances. Tall Guy shakes his head. _You’re on your own, pal._ Stocky Guy might be drunk and riled, but he’s not stupid— there’s no way that 1v1 doesn’t end with Barry taking him apart like he’s made of Tinkertoys. He holds Barry’s ruthless gaze for as long as he dares, then finally lowers his eyes in a fractional nod, surrendering with as much self-respect as he can salvage. 

“All right, man,” he mutters through gritted teeth. “Just get the fuck out.” 

Barry doesn’t care what this guy needs to say so he can feel better about himself in the morning. He just wants to get out of here without causing a major public scene. After his furious charge he’s got the two trespassers backed up towards the sinks, which means there’s a clear path behind him from the handicapped stall to the bathroom exit. Barry makes sure to blunt the daggers in his eyes before he tosses a glance over his shoulder to try and catch Fuches’s gaze with his own.

“Hey, I think—” he starts to say. 

His voice cuts off as he does a double-take, completely blown off-guard by the way that Fuches is staring at him from the doorway of the stall. Just a moment ago he looked so scared— now Fuches looks nothing short of _amazed_ , his eyes huge with astonishment and his jaw half-slack with wonder. It’s like he just watched a magician transform a rabbit into a rottweiler, or else been told that he’s won the jackpot in the Mega Millions lottery. Barry is so confused by the awestruck expression that he almost checks behind him to make sure that Fuches isn’t looking at something else. Then their gazes lock and he sees without a doubt that the admiration is meant for him. Stunned, all Barry can do is answer with a mute nod of confirmation. 

_Yeah,_ he says with his eyes. _I’ve got you._

Fuches nods back. _He knows._ Barry swallows hard to steady his voice.

“I, uh— I think you should go close the tab.” He tosses his head in the direction of the exit. “I’m gonna hang with our new friends for a minute, then I’ll meet you out front.” 

“Sure,” Fuches says, his voice soft, his eyes sharp. “Okay, buddy.” 

Barry swings his sights back towards the hyenas, his eyes on the enemy and his ears following Fuches as he passes behind him, slips over to the door, and then out into the noisy bar beyond. Tall Guy watches Fuches go while Stocky keeps his glare fixed stubbornly on Barry. Barry stares right back, cool and unflinching, pinning him down with the unmatchable weight of eyes that have not only seen Death but actually stared out from under the cowl of the Reaper himself. He doesn’t need to posture or flex anymore. He just lets himself be seen, and as the stare drags on, he gets to watch the gradual recognition start to dawn on his opponent’s face.

There’s a flare of sound as the door swings open and another patron comes in on a beeline for the urinals. With deliberate nonchalance, Barry uses the opportunity to turn and get a dollop of soap in his palm so he can methodically scrub his hands in his sink, his eyes trained all the while on his two reluctant companions. _God, he can still taste Fuches lingering on his tongue._ When he’s done he intentionally lets the oblivious newcomer get in the middle, trading his spot at the sink to grab a pair of paper towels from the dispenser on the wall near the door. As he dries his hands, he catches the attention of his challengers over the head of his human shield, then jerks his chin towards the urinals. 

“Sorry we interrupted you,” he says, eyes locked with Stocky’s. “You still needed to use those, right?” 

Confused, the newcomer chooses that moment to glance uncertainly between everyone before quickly deciding to put his head down again, suddenly very intent on making sure his hands get really, really clean. Tall Guy is already obediently strolling over and unzipping. Stocky almost looks like he wants to press his luck— Barry squares his shoulders and raises his eyebrows, visibly ready, willing, and able to rip his guts out. With a frustrated grimace, Stocky finally tucks his tail between his legs and slinks over to post up. Satisfied, Barry uses the damp paper towels to grab the handle of the exit door. He’s just pulled it open when he catches the seething hiss: 

“ _Fucking faggot._ ”

Barry turns in the doorway, still so drenched with triumph that he must be at least ten feet tall. As Stocky shoots him a dirty look, Barry winks and taps a smug finger against his lips. 

“Don’t ask,” he smirks. “Don’t tell.” 

With that he pivots on his heel and lets the closing door cut off any attempt at a retort, giving him the immeasurable satisfaction of having the last word— which, considering he’s usually arguing with Fuches, is _not_ a pleasure that he gets to experience often. Threading his way through the crowd, he lopes towards the front of the bar with an easy swagger, his gaze idly scanning the patrons along the counter to make sure that Fuches isn’t still waiting to pay up. When he doesn’t find what he’s looking for inside, he emerges onto the sidewalk and makes it halfway up the block before he gets nailed by a full-body bear hug. 

“Oh my _god!_ ” Fuches laughs, the words muffled in the front of Barry’s shirt. “Barry! You were incredible! _Semper fucking fi_ , baby!”

In the next instant Barry’s arms snap shut around him like the jaws of a foothold trap, crushing Fuches against his body with all of his strength.

“Man, you are fucking _crazy_ ,” he laughs back, breathless, burrowling into the overwhelming smell of Fuches’s sweat and cologne. “That was crazy, that was _crazy_ —”

They stagger together in a half-circle before pulling back to look at each other, both of them flushed and grinning in giddy victory. Behind him Barry can feel the tug of Fuches’s hands closing into fists over his shoulder blades as he clutches at Barry’s back, always trying to get a better hold on him. Not like Barry has any room to talk on that score, his own arms wrapped in a greedy double bind around Fuches’s shoulders, pinning him possessively against his chest. Fuches has to lean back against them so he can look up at Barry’s face, marveling at him like he’s the eighth wonder of the world. 

“God _damn_ ,” he says, his tone as fierce and heated as his gaze. “Those dipshits did _not_ know who they were fucking with.” 

Dazed by the attention, Barry manages to shake his head in agreement— _no, they really didn’t._ There’s no way those guys would have pounded on that door if they knew there was a lion on the other side. Even just a glimpse of Barry’s teeth was enough to subdue them. If they could have seen what he’s really capable of— if they knew even a fraction of the awful, bloody things that he’s done— they would have sprinted out of there screaming and never looked back. Any sane person would. The more anyone learns about Barry Berkman and what he really is, the farther they want to run.

_And yet_ —

“That’s my boy,” Fuches grins up at him, his hands grasping again at Barry’s back, still trying to get a better hold on him. “My _boy_.” 

Barry couldn’t explain it if he tried. All he knows is that Fuches _knows_ , and for some inexplicable reason he’s still here, freely laying his head in the lion’s jaws. In the savage pit of his heart, Barry thinks: _I would kill for you._ And then he thinks how lucky he is to have had so many chances to prove it. Overcome with gratitude, he drops his forehead to nuzzle against Fuches’s in a rough, leonine gesture of affection.

“Okay, c’mon,” he says, hoarse. “We gotta go, we really gotta go.”

There’s a moment as he’s pulling away where Fuches cranes after him, keeping their foreheads pressed together for just one beat longer— it makes them both stagger slightly as they come apart, their balance momentarily lost without the other to lean on. Then Fuches looks away, clearing his throat and rubbing the back of his neck with an expression of amused disbelief. Flustered, Barry looks in the opposite direction, checking the door of the bar to make sure that the hyenas haven’t formed up with a larger pack. Nothing yet, but at this point they’ve pressed their luck more than enough for one night. They really do need to make tracks.

“So, uh—” he scans up and down the street, gauging their next move. “You hungry? We could head over to Happy Dog.” 

“Man, I don’t know,” Fuches makes a loose, dismissive gesture. “I might be about ready to head home.” He tosses Barry an idle glance. “What do you think, buddy? Nightcap at my place?”

Barry lets his gaze slide over towards him with as much restraint as he can muster. Fuches seems to be exercising a bit of restraint himself, his mouth pursed tight like he’s trying to hold back a smile that nevertheless shows through in his eyes, a ray of light shining from under a closed door. It’s enough to set Barry back on his heels, his own expression transformed with potent, palpable relief. 

“Yeah, okay,” he says, his voice almost catching. “Let’s go home.” 

He’s on the verge of saying something else— he can feel it right on the tip of his tongue— but at that exact moment he glances over at the door of the bar and sees a familiar stocky figure passing over the threshold, followed shortly by two unfamiliar figures of varying degrees of stockiness and tallness. The pack is on the hunt. 

Halfway up the block, the lion has not yet been seen, and he intends to keep it that way. In the next instant Barry throws an arm around Fuches’s shoulders and spins him until they’re facing the same direction, then immediately starts power walking him towards the nearest street corner. 

“Barry! What the—?”

“ _Shhh_ ,” Barry hisses, barely able to form the sound as he struggles not to break into hysterical giggles. “ _Shhh!_ ”

Fuches glances over his shoulder and then immediately forward again, his eyes huge with comprehension.

“Oh, shit,” he breathes. 

Except this time he doesn’t sound scared at all. This time he just sounds like he’s trying not to giggle, too, his arm hastily thrown around Barry’s waist as they hotfoot it for the corner with their heads ducked down. Barry doesn’t dare risk looking back, instead urgently straining his ears for any signs of recognition or pursuit coming from behind. Somehow they must have one tiny grain of luck left between the two of them, because against all odds they manage to avoid detection until they’ve made it around the corner and out of sight. 

After that it’s just a question of covering a few more cautionary blocks at double-time. Before long Barry feels confident enough to let their pace drop to a leisurely amble, their steps falling into a natural rhythm on the sidewalk as they finish catching their breath, the silence between them comfortable and relaxed. 

“I don’t know, man,” Fuches says after a while. “I think you could have taken ‘em.” 

Barry laughs and gives him a squeeze around the shoulders. A beat later and he realizes with a guilty start that he probably should have let go after they made it around the corner. He’s about to sheepishly withdraw his grip when Fuches laughs back and squeezes his arm around Barry’s waist— he didn’t let go, either. They’re still holding on to each other when they reach the next intersection and cross against the signal, cutting off a sedan that honks in futile outrage while they pass through its headlights. It only makes them laugh harder as they make their getaway into the night, side by side, partners in crime. 

_end.


End file.
